


sacramentum

by problematick



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, F/F, Gladiators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-02-24 08:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13209759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematick/pseuds/problematick
Summary: She fights. She wins. She isn’t supposed to. She does. Of course Angela falls in love. (Ancient Rome!AU.)





	1. prologue - tiro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hundredhanded](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hundredhanded/gifts).



> once upon a time hundredhanded started writing a wonderful ancient greece!AU and then made a tumblr about it. and on that tumblr, hana-blogs once innocently said something about gladiator!fareeha and I owed hundredhanded a gift, so
> 
> here we are. enjoy.

The first time Fareeha enters the ring, she loses. Badly. A lion gets a good swipe at her, tosses her several feet. She’s rendered a slumped pile in the dirt. Unmoving, and leaving the crowd unmoved, she is removed by bulky slabs of muscle with studded leather masks, tossed unceremoniously down the hallway toward the gladiator barracks as the next round of hopefuls march into the maw of the _ludus_. (She learns, later, that this is the point. That _beastiarii_ are not usually meant to survive their encounters. This is why she was given no weapon. She still winces at the cruelty.)

Angela almost skips her.

She’s got a teenage boy draped over her shoulder, shivering and stumbling with her, eyes an unfocused stare. The stump where his hand used to be presses against his sternum like his missing fingers are searching for his heartbeat to assure himself he is still alive. She curses herself even as she yells for one of the brutes to come back, to pick up the limp body she herself has stepped over.

Cassius grunts even as he turns, and again when he crouches down to inspect the battered heap of limbs bleeding into the gravel. “C’mon, doc, I got better shit to do’n this—”

“She’s in the fucking _way_ , idiot. Somebody’s gonna trip over her and add an unnecessarily broken bone to _my_ list of shit to do today and then I’m gonna come thump that big empty head of yours about it. Get her up and get her into a bed, at least.”

Looking at her, half an hour later, still stubbornly clinging to life despite the three gashes in her side (nasty, ragged, lethal looking wound it was, and Angela knows for a fact just how filthy those claws are), Angela grimaces. _It’s a waste. It’s a waste of resources to try and patch her up now. Of linens and of salves and of my time. I’m not a fucking miracle worker._

And so, Angela saves her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tiro_ \- a gladiator fighting in his very first public combat.
> 
>  _ludus (plural, ludi)_ \- public game held for the benefit and entertainment of the Roman people.
> 
>  _beastiarii_ \- beast fighters, often condemned criminals or prisoners of war, who had little chance against the animals they fought.


	2. damnatio ad bestias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The _damnati_ were those who would have at least a slender chance of survival. Usually better than the _noxii_ set for pure execution, no doubt. But _damnatio ad bestias_ was still a dire fate: it was to be condemned to beasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story kept me up until 2am two nights in a row, and I have no idea how long it's going to be, not least because I have about 30 tabs open for research. let's go for a ride. (glossary in the end notes for terms not explained in-text.)

The second time Fareeha steps into the ring, she gets a better introduction, at least.

_“Meet the warrior who managed to survive a mauling, dear crowd! Isn’t it fun when they’ve got heart?”_

She emerges from the tunnel, a scrap of cloth tied over one eye. The rest of her countenance is like chiseled stone—jaw, cheekbones, proud nose, all a work of seemingly sculpted Egyptian art.

_“My, what a scowl! I don’t remember that pretty face losing an eye, but this time folks, she’ll probably lose her life!”_

Fareeha’s fingers tighten around the _hasta_ she’s chosen. Wood squeaks under the clench of her sweaty palm. The spear is as tall as she is, and of a good weight; she tries to let this reassure her. But she hears the lion’s roar echo down its tunnel and her knees tremble despite herself.

This is fine. This is fear. This she can use.

She closes her eyes, listening to the announcer rile up the crowd, hearing the chains rattle closer and closer to the wrought gate from which the lion will spring. She feels the bright September sun bearing down on her bared shoulders and a tickle of wind brushing her hair across her face. Senses the greaves laced tightly against her shins, inhales the faint smell of damp wood from the freshly washed shield she’s chosen. It is a foreign creation, to the Romans—a cross somewhere between a _parmula_ and a _clipeus_ , but Fareeha is familiar with neither. All she knows is weight of a barrier nearly half her height tugs at the inside of her elbow, wrist. She pivots the ball of her foot slightly, and the resulting crunch of earth under the leather sandal grounds her to the present.

She squints open her unbandaged eye as the gate is creakily hauled open, udjat tattoo winking darkly beneath. Her right foot slides behind into a defensive stance, and she keeps the lion to her right so she may see him better.

She’s craftier this time, far better than her first bout. It helps that she didn’t disdain all armor like last time, like an idiot who thought this would be a fair fight like in her homeland. (She hadn’t fully realized how cruel this pharoah was then, not yet. Her society has slaves, and they suffer true enough, but at least it’s for the ensurement of eternal glory! Not simply for sport, or worse—politics.)

 _Manicae_ adorn both her forearms elbow to wrist, and though it was a bit of stiff leather she’s had to hack down to her own size, she feels more confident with at least a cuirass strapped on. Her midsection is bare, flashing the barely healed wounds from her last encounter, and from the waist down she only has the standard leather loincloth all gladiators wear. Though she had wound a length of linen around her hips in the style of the _shendyt_  she knew, that was all. No seasoned warrior would offer a foreign war prisoner their leather studded _cingulum_ for protection.

Her depth perception’s shot without both eyes, so she keeps the lion at bay—jabbing at him often enough to keep him growling, but without sure footing. She knows how cats move, how cats hunt. She knows she has little advantage over such a fearsome predator. She knows her scars are bright and pink and angry, and that he was denied the satisfaction of killing her.

She knows she has but one chance at survival, if the gods will grant her favor.

A breeze stirs the dust they’ve kicked up into tiny whirlwinds. They pace each other in a wide circle, deaf to the crowd’s jeers and whistles. Fareeha half-shrugs her shoulder, wincing at the strain of an unfamiliar weight. The bronze edge dips below her chin and she sees the lion’s tail twitch even as the rest of him goes still.

_Shit._

Several things begin to happen at once.

Fareeha heaves the shield up and drives it point down into the dirt. Though the ground is hard beneath a fine layer of gritty sand, she manages to drive it several inches in, and it stands firm without her.

The lion’s haunches all bunch, and his back paws tap out a preparatory patter, padded feet looking for the best purchase with which to launch all of his bulk directly at his prey.

Angela looks up from tying a splint around a shattered femur at the gasped inhale of the crowd. (She’s long ago learned to sense them, feel them; they are the best barometer of the work she has ahead of her on any given day. Of course, it’s always their damnable bloodthirsty fault how much she has to do though, isn’t it.) She peers through the bars of her dungeon-like infirmary, fingers still skillfully knotting thick linens by touch alone as if she could do so in her sleep. A shadow creeps along the ground just as the lion pounces.

And Angela sees, a split-second before anyone else, how Fareeha plans to win.

Fareeha reaches up to her head with her newly freed left hand. The lion leaps. She flings off her bandage to the left of the shield. A stiff wind sends it fluttering it several feet. Clouds cover the sun and blanket the stadium in a muted hush, and Fareeha’s once-covered bright amber eye shoots open. She exhales; she consciously relaxes her wrist.

The lion’s pupils widen to saucers; he twitches a hair’s breadth to the right, after the scrap of cloth dancing in the wind. His whole head jerks, following the new motion. For just a moment, he loses her in the shifting light, and she sees with clarity gained walking amongst the darkened corridors of the amphitheatre’s depths, preserved by a simple piece of linen.

It is enough.

Fareeha’s right leg lunges forward from defense to offense, thigh flexing to the right of the shield’s protection. She thrusts her right arm forward, but the effort is a fluid full-bodied motion. It swells like a wave from her feet up her legs; it rolls up her spine through her neck right down to the snarl on her lips; it ends with her entire being condensed into one vicious point that snaps into place faster than Angela can blink.

Just like that, the urban prefect's favorite pet is dead, its tongue lolling grotesquely beneath the shaft of the spear impaling its brain.

The clouds pass, blinding the audience with the sun’s brilliance once more as Fareeha walks back to her entrance, a lonely gravel crunch accompanying each step of her sandaled feet.

It is in this moment, before Fareeha turns to go, that Angela isn’t sure how, but: those hawk-like eyes land on her and pierce her to her very core. (This not true. This is a beautiful lie Angela tells herself at night when she cannot stop thinking about _that woman_. Fareeha doesn’t notice the slits in the concrete, nor the thousands of eyes staring after her, least of all the wide eyes of a gangly blonde covered in viscera, Angela knows. But it felt, just for a moment, as if she did.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _parmula_ and _clipeus_ are each a type of shield; the former is a small round shield, very lightweight, while the latter is a large, oval body-shield. _manicae_ are leather arm wraps, similar to bracers as I've described them here, but there were some that went past the elbow all the way to the shoulder. 
> 
> _shendyt_ is the typical style of skirt wrap most of us are familiar with from ancient egypt! I was excited to learn it had a particular name. a _cingulum_ is a wide leather belt which was to protect the gladiators waistline from being injured, sometimes strengthened with metal plates. soldiers wore _cingulums_ which often had studded leather straps hanging from the front to protect the loin, which were known as _cingulum militare_.
> 
> whew, that was a lot of terms! the next chapter is in progress. I still have no idea where I'm going with this. but it is, as always, for hundredhanded. <3


	3. selectio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EXT. - DAY: 
> 
> An exhausted doctor. 
> 
> ENTER: An exotic, stoic warrior.

“Where is my doctor?!”

Angela shoves the heels of both hands against her eye sockets, then pulls her hands down over her face until only her bloodshot eyes are visible, elbows braced against her knees. The _lanista_ calls for her again, and again she does not answer his shout.

“My doctor,” she mutters into her hands, letting them slide from her cheeks until they flopped between her legs. Her head drifts back until it rests against the stone of the building she hides behind. “‘My doctor,’ like he’s the _praefectus urbanus_ himself.” She shakes her head, eyes rolling closed at the increasing frenetic yelling to locate her. As if she were just another slave, called to heel by her master.

“He’s going to find you back here, you know,” comes a lighthearted voice, and Angela startles before she can override her instincts.

“Damn your eyes, Helena, I told you to stop sneaking up on me.” The girl’s musical giggle inspires no hope of contrition for her actions, so Angela tries a scowl.

Helena’s eyebrows crawl toward her hairline. “Ooh, scary.”

Angela’s mock anger deflates. With a smile curling her lips, Helena plops down next to her, nudged up against the back of the mess hall. She gazes at Angela for a few moments, which Angela simply allows. Helena’s admiration is a welcome balm to her weary heart, and she is too tired to think better of indulging her aide’s crush.

The manhunt for Angela drifts toward the other end of the grounds, closer to the _palaestra_ in the stadium’s western shadow. _As if I would be caught dead on the exercise-grounds while run this ragged_ , Angela titters internally.

Searching for grace and finding none within, Angela indulges in a little lady-gazing of her own. Helena flushes prettily when Angela’s blue eyes land on her from behind lowered lashes. The shock of unruly brown hair partial to an almost improbable lift of curls up top is cut close to her skull on the sides and back, like a freshly shorn sheep. Angela reaches out, traces a fingertip over the shell of one ear, grazes a cheekbone and taps the gently reddened tip of her nose. “Boop.”

Helena’s brows draw together even as she blushes a little deeper, a bemused smile on her face. “You must really be tired if you’re into affectionate gestures.”

The blonde’s eyes slide closed, and her hand falls limp to her side. “Mm,” is all Angela can muster as reply. The temperature in the shade is quite cool as the year draws further into autumn. Goosebumps rise on Angela’s bare arms and she’s thankful for the prickle of chill. The cold nipping at her skin keeps her from falling dead asleep, reminds her that time is passing and things may yet change.

“It’s almost time for _prandium_ , Angela. You know he will find you then.”

“Not if I don’t eat,” Angela grumbles.

“If you think I’m going to let you ignore perfectly fine food when I know you’ve been skipping meals, you’ve got another thing coming,” Helena says, springing to her feet with a boundless, youthful energy Angela merely glares at.

“Come on, then,” Helena says, reaching out a hand. Angela groans. “Come on!”

She relents, slapping her hand into Helena’s palm and letting the girl haul her to her feet. Angela finds herself standing much faster than she expected, and Helena winks at her surprised blink.

“Time to go,” Helena urges in a sing-song voice, turning Angela around and marching her back into the light of day. When they round the corner of the mess Angela stops short, Helena’s sandals scuffing her achilles, her ankle at the abrupt halt.

“I said come _on_ , doc, really—”

Angela is deaf to her complaints. The _lanista_ is there in the courtyard, but he has yet to see her. No, what Angela is fixed on is a tall, dark-skinned woman with a peculiar tattoo curling beneath one eye. Who stands in a plain blue tunic that stops at her muscular calves, a bow slung over her chest, spinning an arrow idly between her fingers. The muscles in her forearm bunch and relax while the slender wood shaft twirls, mouth set in a thin, almost disapproving line. She looks like a coiled spring waiting to be set loose, all potential energy yearning to be kinetic.

Bright amber eyes sense being watched and land unerringly on the source. If Angela had not already been frozen by her very presence, she would have been rendered immobile by that penetrating, intelligent gaze meeting her own.

(Later, Angela dreams of those eyes again, and she wakes with the same singular coherent thought that strikes her now: _Cupid, I curse thy very name._ )

“Doctor Zeigla, there you are!” bellows the _lanista_ , and she is literally propelled forward out of her reverie by Helena, a hand on each shoulder, driving her forward.

“Meet my newest gladiator. Her name is Fareeha Amari, and she comes to us from _Aegyptus_. I stole her away from their _praefectus_ who had earned her in the spoils of a small rebel skirmish.” At Helena’s raised brow, he bares his teeth in a wide, ape-like grin. “It was his mistake to bring her here to Rome and show off her skill. Now she belongs to me, the urban prefect, and the emperor.”

“ _Salutaris_ ,” Angela hears herself say, inclining her head. “I hope you speak Latin.”

“I do,” comes a haughty, lilting purr that takes hold of something hidden and low in Angela’s belly. It hooks right in the depths of her loins, tugs sharply—the sensation makes her breath catch.

Oh.  _Oh_. Angela is in so much trouble.

“We shall take _prandium_ with the rest of the crew and then get you settled into your barracks, Amari.” Fareeha nods her assent as a young boy, no older than thirteen, bounds up to the group just inside the gate of the school’s grounds.

“Excuse me,” he pants, gulping for air and straightening his shoulders. “I have a message for the _lanista_ of _Ludus Invigliare_. I seek Nikomedes Argus Winstonus.”

“That’s me,” Nikomedes says. The youth hands over a single scroll and trots out the way he came, with no further fanfare. Nikomedes turns the scroll over in his hands thoughtfully. “Curious.”

With that, Nikomedes ushers them into the mess hall, unfurls the papyrus carefully as he sinks down on to a long bench seat butted up to one of multiple serving tables. Each table is laden with apples, dates, and dried plums; several athletic, muscled individuals are scattered among them, a low murmur of conversation in the room. Fareeha sits next to Nikomedes, arrow still twirling between her fingertips. If Angela didn’t know any better, she’d think the woman nervous, but that isn’t possible. (Because what could this woman—who so fearlessly faced a lion and slaked the public’s thirst for blood in one fell swoop—possibly have to fear?)

Helena fetches them each a bowl of barley porridge and a warm roll of common bread studded with nuts. Nikomedes absently accepts the bowl just to place it on one corner of the scroll; an apple goes on the others as he squints at the writing. He plucks a clear bit of glass out of a pocket on his tunic and polishes it on his sleeve, then places down the stone over the text. It is made bigger and clearer by the glass, and so he slides the stone across the parchment, murmuring quietly to himself as he reads.

Angela, bored of this trick and trying not to stare at their guest, lets her eyes roam about the mess, checking that all her charges are filling up properly on fruits and grain. A sharp elbow digs into her ribs and she stifles a curse.

“Helena,” Angela says, in a tone both worn and warning.

“Eat,” the girl commands, but obediently gives up her nudging. Angela sighs and forces herself to lift food to her mouth, though it tastes like so much ash on her tongue.

Nikomedes exclaims suddenly, “Fareeha’s been selected for the Secular Games!” and suddenly the mess hall is awash in fervor. Though months away into next year, it means the emperor himself has heard of her victory. She must fight a bout in the meantime, maybe two, by order of the urban prefect—this is to assure her competency, and drum up further popularity.

Angela knows exactly why he has leapt upon Fareeha and managed to wrest her from Gaius Septimus’s grasp. Titus Aurelius Fulvus is a good prefect, but a better politician. What better way to ensure continued political dominance than to pluck a crowning gladitorial jewel from your rival governor's very own land? Thus Fulvus the elder curries further favor with Emperor Domitian, and the people are satisfied both in hearts and in minds. If the game the Empire played with Rome every single day weren’t so bloody, Angela might even be impressed by it.

The retired gladiator teachers have gathered round, arguing about whether to train her as a _hoplomachus_ or as a _retiarius_. The conversation isn't meant to be private, and some listen with rapt attention (Helena) while others ignore it completely (a white-haired man with a long, ragged scar across his face frowns into his bowl and leaves the table as soon as he’s finished, apparently unconcerned with the future glory their _ludus_ might attain). Fareeha is silent throughout, after methodically finishing her porridge and fruit repast. Angela thinks of other things (namely, mysterious Egyptian warriors and what it might be like to kiss them). 

“She is obviously comfortable with the shield and sword. Why would we waste any time? Train her to be even better with a smaller shield, which is all she would need against an armored man instead of a beast.”

“But she dispatched the _praefector’s_ lion with one blow! Can you imagine the draw to see her killing three great animals in a row? Five? Ten! She could be Rome’s finest _beastiarius_.”

“A useless title, and one we shall not seek.” Nikomedes speaks with an authoritative rumble, one that brooks no further debate.

There are grumbles, but the decision is clearly made. Chatter begins anew as the crowd disperses to clean their plates and return to training. Back to the normal routine already for the gladiators and their doctor, except:

This time when Angela is on the receiving end of an intense, probing look from a pair of golden eyes before Fareeha turns for the exit, she isn't imagining a thing. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never in my life studied latin, so please forgive me my translation sins:
> 
>  _lanista_ \- an owner, recruiter, trainer, and speculator in gladiators who sold or rented men to the games. in the Empire this job came under the jurisdiction of the emperor.  
>  _praefectus urbanus_ \- also called _praefectus urbi_ or urban prefect in English, was prefect of the city of Rome. basically the mayor, granted all the powers needed to maintain order within the city.  
>  _prandium_ \- lunch.  
>  _ludus invigliare_ \- essentially, school of overwatch. _ludus_ meant both school and games then, interestingly enough. (ex: the _ludus magnus_ AKA the great gladiatorial training school.) and _invigliare_ means "to watch over." close enough. :)  
>  Secular Games - a Roman religious celebration, involving sacrifices and theatrical performances, held in ancient Rome for three days and nights to mark the end of a saeculum and the beginning of the next. (a saeculum, supposedly the longest possible length of human life, was considered as either 100 or 110 years in length.) I selected this specifically because it seemed cool as hell. thusly, emperor domitian and other actually-real historical dudes like casperius (and! an exact era this fic is set in: 87-88 AD).
> 
> if a term is not mentioned here, it's either explained in-text or it will be explained more thoroughly in a future chapter.
> 
> I am a very silly person who was calling this a greek!AU when it is definitely a roman!AU. I have updated the tags and the summary to reflect as much. additionally, I will probably almost always be editing (well, tweaking) the chapters and their summaries even once they go up, as hundredhanded is my usual editor and for obvious reasons I prefer to surprise them with the final product. 
> 
> let it be noted that if there are historical inaccuracies, I would not be surprised in the least, as virtually everything of the setting has come from frantic and extensive googling. all errors are my own, and I welcome any corrections from those better schooled about ancient rome and/or latin than me. 
> 
> finally, I want thank you readers so, so much for such an enthusiastic response to this work! it means a lot to me that you all are enjoying it so thoroughly. for better or worse, much of what's to come is still a mystery even to me, so I also thank you for your patience while I try to suss it out and wrestle the words onto the page.
> 
> EDITED TO ADD: I fucked up! I was in such a hurry to get these words posted I mistakenly wrote in casperius as the urban prefect when he is in fact a different, actually real historical figure dude (see next chapter for more details). I have since corrected the error, and we should be golden moving forward.


	4. infamia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notoriety is often mistaken for fame.

By the third time she enters the ring, she is unstoppable. She is no longer relegated to the lowest ranks of gladiator—because even within these schools of the criminals and the condemned, there is hierarchy. There is an order to the madness that has become a political institution, a way to satisfy a social demand from a public used to constant war. The Romans show up in droves with a hunger for blood quenched over lunch. (Because, you see, this is when the executions take place. After the parades and animals but before the main events. This is the nature of a mere lunch break during _ludi_. Broken bread with broken skulls.) Fareeha cannot make sense of it, and soon stops trying. She learns its ritual only as a means to survive it.

For example: Fareeha must be initiated before her next fight.

She balks at being paraded into the center of the arena, herded like cattle amongst all the other fresh recruits. A brute tries to urge her forward and she jerks her bicep out of his grasp, a growled curse on her tongue. He shakes his head, lifting a thick arm to point at the archway leading out of the amphitheater’s holding cell.

“Either go on your own or I make you go.” Cassius thinks to himself that he’s never seen a woman quite so ready to kill before, but she goes.

(He stops at a temple on his way home that night, and lights a stick of incense for Fortuna, a small smile on his craggy face.)

The warriors all shift uneasily, wondering if Nemesis would show herself with some new twist. Perhaps they all had suddenly been found wanting and would be put to death. They jostle left and right, jockeying for personal space even as they are hemmed in by men that are not so much human as they are titanic, mobile mountains. Fareeha goes very still and allows the crowd to press nearer to her, focused on the raised platform they are being ushered toward. The announcer from her previous fight stands atop it, strutting from end to end, grinning like a man who regularly fixes the contests he bets on.

“Good morning, Rome!”

The crowd roars in response. He throws his arms wide, and Fareeha scoffs at the showmanship when he offers a grandiose bow. “I am Ulixes, your humble editor, and I bring to you the next wave of fighting elite!”

Applause skitters through the stadium, and Ulixes nods agreeably. “Yes, yes, ‘get to the action, Ulixes,’ I know. We have had our parade, and soon will we have our bouts, but first—the _sacramentum_!”

It is at this point that Fareeha senses she will not like what comes next. (She has not hated being right so much since the moment she saw Gaius Septimus smile when she was forced to kneel before the _praefectus Aegypti_ those few months ago. She knew then, somehow, that she was destined to leave Egypt, and look at her now.)  

Ulixes turns his attention to the men—and scant few women—in front of him, his eyes gone cool and hard, all his charm gone. _Reserved only for the audience_ , Fareeha thinks. _Shrewd._

“All of you will repeat after me, and then be branded as true gladiators. This sacred oath is your bond. To forfeit it is to be given to the gods.” He shows his teeth in a mirthless smile. “Consider it your life on deposit.”

Fareeha’s tongue is thick and heavy, her mouth gone drier than the sand she stands upon as Ulixes begins to recite the pledge. Her ears roar with a rush of blood as she spots the red-hot irons being brought out from the shadows of the tunnel leading toward the infirmary. She can barely hear Ulixes to parrot his words in a breathless mumble.

_"I commit my flesh, my mind, my will to the glory of my ludus and the commands of my master, Titus Aurelius Fulvus, Urban Prefect of Rome, bound in service to Emperor Titus Flavius Domitianus. I swear to be burned, chained, beaten, or die by the sword for honor in the arena.”_

She says it but does not mean it or believe it; she hates that she must swear to something which she does not value, does not honor; but she _will_ fight to the death, so she can at least swear to the truth.

She does not flinch, does not scream, merely clenches her jaw with flaring nostrils when metal sears the flesh on the back of her left hand. She looks down at the circle of angry, risen, scorched flesh—at the curious crooked mark that crosses through the middle of the brand’s symbol, almost like hands brought together in prayer. She clenches her hand into a fist and the stinging agony in the stretch of burned skin hardens her resolve into something adamantine.

She smolders so fiercely for the rest of the day it scares her opponent half to death. (He is spared in the end, with her sword poised to plunge into his chest, and her eyes haunt him the rest of his days.) Fareeha drops her sword and shield as soon as she reaches the armory, and clutches her left wrist so tightly her fingers go slightly purple. The pain of her _stigmata_ throbs with every heartbeat. Distantly, she wonders what kind of life this is, and whether it is one worth fighting for after all.

-

The oldest teacher at _Ludus Invigliare_ , the one all the retired gladiators turn to for a final word—when it is one of them and not Nikomedes who decides—is a gnarled stump of a thing. (Whether his wisdom is invoked or not for any given dispute is difficult to predict. The unspoken line lives somewhere in the distance between the mind and the swell of actual muscle. Suffice it to say, everyone knows when it is crossed and Nikomedes will back down, including him.)

Growling from behind a magnificent beard, stomping around, head barely at the waist of lithe, active bodies at the peak of their prowess, he browbeats them all into submission. His hoarse yells fill the _palaestra_ during morning and afternoon training both. “Quit standin’ around!”

Angela quietly and constantly calls him Vulcan, to which he snuffles and snorts and possibly blushes behind all the hair on his face. Torbiorn Linus Horatius also serves as the blacksmith to their _ludus_ , and after sundown can be found in his workshop, repairing and honing each weapon in their armory with a skill unmatched throughout the Seven Hills—or so he says.

Fareeha learns from Iohannes, the gruff, white-haired man she had seen at the first meal she’d shared in. He, too, is harsh, but he is generous with his praise once Fareeha begins to grasp the fundamentals of their fighting style. They spar; though he is older than she is (by how much she cannot tell—the hair tells one story, his brawn and agility another entirely), he beats her soundly each day, twice a day.

This morning she has her hands on her knees, shield dropped between her feet on the browning grass. He waits for her to catch her breath, almost visible in the chilled air. He always waits, and she always picks back up.

(She will not die here. It is something true, nigh immutable, and though she has never said it in Latin, all those in charge of her fate seem to know it. She stops training when Nikomedes beckons, and never a moment before.)

“It is different from war,” he says abruptly, and Fareeha blinks in surprise. It is as if he stole the words right out of her mind. He nods a little, knowingly, hefting the wooden sword in his hand up to rest on his shoulders. His head tilts back to rest on it, and his eyes look searchingly at the cloudy skies above them, seeing something distant and long past as he speaks. “I know how difficult it is to have to fight on your own now, always. You miss relying on your fellow man. The arena is isolation—a soldier knows how to fight, but as part of a team. The Romans make us do it alone.”

He seems to come back to himself suddenly, and shifts his shoulders, frowning at the lapse. Fareeha does him the courtesy of picking up her shield as if he hadn’t said a thing. They go again. But from then on Fareeha can see something different in his eyes, though they never speak of it.

Iohannes sits to her immediate right at their next meal time, and there does he remain.

-

People stream into the Stadium of Domitian past billboards proclaiming the name of FAREEHA AMARI. Leggings and long sleeves and the odd pair of boots brace some of the crowd against the cold. The rest are left to fend for themselves with warm beverages or the comfort of wine and their thickest woolen tunics. Young boys sprint north through the _Campus Martius_ , trying not to be late for the afternoon’s marquee matchups. So too are two coltish young girls—one with broad shoulders and another with long brown hair—sneaking in to catch a glimpse of Rome’s newest star, hissing at one another in excitement, peering beneath elbows and between shoulders.  

“Is that her, leaving the arena? Alexandra, did we miss it?!”

“No, Hana, calm down. We haven’t missed anything—oh! Excuse us, sorry,” she says, an arm bodily wrenching Hana out of the way of a small procession headed toward prime seating.

The two press themselves against the wall to allow a cohort of finely decorated soldiers precede a small group of men shuffling forward on _calcei_ -clad feet in carefully draped purple togas. The fastidiously dressed men are indistinguishable from any other magistrates to the girls, but the guardsmen each bear a sword on one hip and carry lances as tall as they are.

Alexandra spots, with faint shock, stars and crescents upon the shields they carry, scattered around a fearsome design of wings and thunderbolts. She opens her mouth to whisper to Hana something about _important_ and _powerful_ and _we have to go now, right fucking now_ when the head of the guard (the only one of the men shouldering his official lion-skin cape) notices them.

“Did someone send for me?” he asks brusquely, his mouth little more than a slashed scowl upon his rugged features. “Did someone send word with you for Casperius Aelianus?”

Alexandra struggles to find her voice while Hana stares, wide-eyed and speechless up at the towering _praefectus praetorio_ , Commander of the Praetorian Guard. “No sir, we have no message.”

“Then begone,” he commands, already disinterested in them. His eyes flick back at the group he arrived with, then from whence they came, rigorously checking for the safety of his charge and their surroundings. “You belong in the _summa cavea_ , not the _ima cavea_ , and certainly not the stands reserved for the Prefect and his guard.”

“Yes sir, of course. We just got mixed up, we’ll be on our way,” Alexandra says, Hana’s head bobbing in assent. They run for the upper section open to women and children, and, panting, land in their seats just in time.

Everyone watches her dispatch yet another opponent with almost criminal ease. Everyone cheers.

_“By the gods, the Egyptian is victorious once again! Should we call her Hermanubis? Or perhaps just... the Jackal. Yes, my dear, let us see those vicious teeth!”_

That night, Fareeha cannot buy her own drink at the small tavern gladiators frequent at the base of Capitoline Hill. The next night, she sleeps like the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, there's so many terms this go-round. okay. glossary--
> 
>  _sacramentum_ \- an oath or vow that rendered the swearer sacer--"given to the gods," in the negative sense if he violated it. also referred to a thing that was pledged as a sacred bond, and consequently forfeit if the oath were violated. both instances imply an underlying sacratio, act of consecration.
> 
>  _Campus Martius_ \- [a real place!](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Campus_Martius) same for [the Stadium of Domitian](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stadium_of_Domitian).
> 
>  _calcei_ \- senatorial shoes, proper for a magistrate to wear in public, instead of his common 'slippers.' (who knew there was such a thing!)
> 
> relevant architecture: the Roman amphitheatre consists of three main parts; the cavea, the arena, and the vomitorium. the seating area is called the cavea (enclosure). the _ima cavea_ is the lowest part of the cavea and the one directly surrounding the arena, usually reserved for the upper echelons of society. I skipped the _media cavea_ , which directly follows the ima cavea and was open to the general public, though mostly reserved for men. the _summa cavea_ is the highest section and was usually open to women and children. the vomitoria (plural form) were the arched entrances both at the arena level and within the cavea designed to disperse large crowds.
> 
> to clarify the edited end note from last chapter: I mistakenly named Casperius as the urban prefect, when he was actually the praetorian prefect ( _praefectus praetorio_ ), and Fulvus the elder was the urban prefect. my bad! also: real dudes of the time!
> 
> finally, Hermanubis was apparently a god who combined Hermes (Greek mythology) with Anubis (Egyptian mythology)?? it was perfect and cool and I could not resist throwing it in.
> 
> that oath is stolen almost completely wholesale from the show Spartacus (except for the bit about Fulvus and Domitian). a great deal more of this chapter’s words have come directly from the varied and sundry sources I have hastily googled, but I am hard pressed to discern them all out of the *squints* seventy bookmarks I have for this fic now?
> 
> for hundredhanded, as ever.


	5. interlude - in medias res

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha runs, and she trains, and she is tended to by Doctor Zeigla.

Fareeha runs.

There are plenty of exercises and rigors that the gladiators are put through. Sometimes they suffer exceptionally long days on the _palaestra_ , even when the sun has abandoned them, and Torbiorn has them counting out push-ups as a group, shouting into the darkness.

Their training is ostensibly only four days a week: they adhere to the _tetrad_ schedule, with days of rest stacked between. But none of them are free, so to speak—all owned by Nikomedes and Fulvus and the state. The Empire does not want its prized entertainment injured, or out of shape, and their quarters are a cross between barracks and prison cells. Their rooms spartan, and their fates constantly looming, most of the warriors choose to train, even on their “days off.”

Angela tuts and fusses and argues and even orders, when necessary, and Nikomedes is never far behind once she does, with sternly crossed arms and a furrowed brow, girding her words with a threat worse than whatever injury they currently suffer.

Fareeha runs.

She tires of learning the fighting styles, the choreography of play-acting that becomes deadly serious the moment she steps in the arena. She misses her archery, and _warmth_ , and ranging free with sand beneath her feet. She gets up and she runs laps just at the edge of the grounds, brushing the wall with the fingertips of her right hand in moments of absent fancy, huffing and puffing in January’s cold.

Of course, however, there is the doctor and her hiding spot between the mess and the wall and the both of them being startled by the other’s unexpected presence, that first time. But Fareeha doesn’t freeze long and jumps back into her cantering rhythm while Angela places a hand to her chest and tries to quiet her heartbeat. Angela hears her coming, the next time, though the steps are extraordinarily quiet, and Fareeha offers a quick, small smile when their eyes meet. After that Fareeha’s eyes stay up, looking straight ahead as she lopes along. Angela closes her eyes instead. There’s a kind of soothing pattern to Fareeha reliably coming around the bend again and again as the afternoon wears on, steady and swift, with no comment or even perceived judgment to Angela’s hiding from Torbiorn or Nikomedes or the world.

Fareeha runs, and she trains, and she is tended to by Doctor Zeigla.

-

Twice a week Angela instructs her to lie down, and though she obeys, she eventually asks, “Why do you do this?”

As if by rote, Angela replies, “Regular massage and high quality medical care help mitigate an otherwise very severe training regimen.”

“Hm,” Fareeha murmurs. “Sensible.”

Angela spares her a more direct glance while she cleans her hands and fetches a small bottle of perfumed oil and a strigil. “You all work very hard, and put a lot of stress on your bodies.” She briefly makes a face. “Most anyone would benefit from massage, not merely the wealthy with slaves to do it for them.”

Fareeha snickers and Angela looks a little taken aback, as if she hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud. But Fareeha has closed her eyes already and lies relaxed on the camp bed, so Angela gets to her work.

The oil has notes of frankincense, cinnamon, and labdanum, though all are subtle. The point of the oil is to aid massage, not so much to perfume the gladiators, and Angela thinks it a bit of a shame they are denied even this little luxury, the choice of their own scents. But this is not for her to decide, and it is a small thing, too small for her to gripe about. She dutifully oils each of her fighters from head to toe and works their limbs into supple relaxation, and they all leave her care smelling the exact same.

She begins by moving Fareeha’s arms and then her legs through slow, methodical flexion movements, testing the extent of her flexibility and the smoothness of her rolling joints. Fareeha is not surprised at how rough Angela’s hands are. Why would they be soft? She watches Angela suture flesh torn asunder and make it whole again, watches her setting (or resetting) broken bones, watches her grind raw materials with a mortar and pestle into analgesic liniments by hand. Her work is not that of a warrior, but it is not easy; though her calluses are different than Fareeha’s, they are no less hardened.

Her touch is not always gentle, either. Often the powerful kneading brings Fareeha to the brink of tears, and even once she thinks she might just expire from the pain of the knot in her calf, Angela’s long fingers dug right into it and pressing, pressing, pressing—

“Oh, Doctor, _please_ —” and, more than a little flushed at Fareeha’s desperate moan, Angela relents. Fareeha’s whole body goes slack and she rasps out a breathy laugh. “Mercy. Thank you.”

Swallowing hard, Angela switches to long, soothing strokes, drawing the surface of her entire hand up and down those long brown legs, up her sinewy torso, over defined abdominals and along brawny, powerful arms, following the curves and flow of musculature beneath the oil-slicked skin. “I’m sorry, I should have paid attention to how you were feeling. It will bruise, but you shouldn’t suffer cramps in that leg anymore, either.”

Long, dark lashes flutter, and golden brown eyes gaze up in a sleepy, half-lidded gaze at the woman above her, whose hands are conscientiously squeezing the tension out of her trapezius muscles. “Must you torture me?”

“If you lik—” is halfway out of Angela’s mouth before she catches hold of herself and snaps her mouth shut with a click of her teeth. She settles on “it had to be done,” instead, picking up the strigil and beginning the process of scraping off the oil, dirt, and sweat from Fareeha’s bronzed skin.

Fareeha wrinkles her nose, a skeptical “hmm,” her only reply.

But when Angela chides her with an exasperated, “Oh, hush,” she can feel Fareeha’s low chuckle resonate right inside her own chest.

-

Fareeha asks how Angela got here, while Angela attends to several shallow, non-threatening wounds. Because they are mere bruises and cuts (and one small sprain to Fareeha’s left wrist that Angela tsks at under her breath, muttering about shields and strength and recovery periods, earning a fond twitch of Fareeha’s eyebrows that goes entirely unnoticed by the laser focus of a doctor ministering to her patient), Fareeha is the last in the infirmary to be served this day. She’s been under a blanket, sat in front of the room’s well-constructed fire, eyes closed like a cat at the warmth seeping into her battle-weary body. Angela explains.

The games are in the hands of the imperial state and he—that is, Fulvus—deemed her the head of the medic corps. So she’s kind of in charge of medical care for about 60% of the gladiatorial bouts in the city of Rome? When there aren’t bouts, she’s here, as this is the newest Ludus in the city and the one without a doctor on staff when it was formed a few years ago.

Technically, this is an honor—aside from the Emperor’s personal doctors, this means she is essentially the Empire’s top medic. Realistically, she doesn’t sleep much. She’s very tired. And she has not admitted aloud just how weary she is in a long, long time.

A thing Angela does not explain: how badly she wants Fareeha to fuck her silly. She doesn’t have the words. Literally, she doesn’t know if it will translate properly. (Do not point out that Fareeha’s Latin is impeccable. Angela gets very angry. This is Helena’s warning.) She bites her lip at her own prurient thoughts and focuses on cleaning Fareeha’s wound. Seeing as it’s on her well muscled thigh, it’s a less than successful gambit.

(She knows the doctor finds her attractive, it is a simple thing to see. Fareeha likes the attention very much. She just wants to know more about this worn, dogged healer before she asks if she can kiss her. She is sure from the way Angela’s hands linger on her skin when the bandages are tidied and done that when she asks, she will not be refused. She is less certain that Angela would ever admit to this. That’s okay. Fareeha likes being in charge anyway.)

As with virtually all things, Fareeha is straightforward and unflinching in her curiosity. Fareeha asks Angela questions softly, during her ministrations; loudly, at crowded mealtimes; continually, whenever their paths cross.

“Where were you born? What of your parents?”

“Why did you become a healer?”

“Do you like to read?”

“How did you acquire Helena?” (“Hey!”)

“What is your favorite fruit?”

And Angela finds herself answering. She answers every query. Even when she is exhausted, when there have been a set of games every other day for two weeks straight because three prominent old magistrates passed within days of each other and their deaths demanded honoring—even then, Fareeha’s lilting tone marked with an inquisitive little rise at the end of each sentence makes her smile, makes her divulge yet another fact about herself.

Angela doesn’t quite notice how her favorite fruits—pears and apricots both—are hoarded and heaped upon the table Helena steers her to every day. Doesn’t see Fareeha quietly studying Ovid, her admitted favorite (though Fareeha frowns at multiple passages of _Ars Amatoria_ while waiting her turn for her post-workout massage). Doesn’t notice Helena’s absence at her side some days, or the imitation udjats drawn in ash beneath her big brown eyes when she reappears.

What she does realize—slowly—is that she’s sleeping better. That she looks forward to seeing her last patient of the day. (Somehow, Fareeha is always her last patient of the day.) That the unending gore and violence isn’t resting so heavily on her soul, this winter. That Fareeha’s hair is getting longer now, with its two curiously braided and beaded side locks, almost long enough to cover her breasts. That... she’s staring at Fareeha’s breasts.

Helena bursts into a cackle, Angela turns beet red, and Fareeha just smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's only one term to explain this time, which is the _tetrad_ training schedule: it was a system developed by the ancient greeks. this divided training into 4-day cycles. day of preparation (toning and short, high intensity workouts), day of high intensity (long, strenuous exercise), day of rest (short, very light workouts were also done, but it was mostly about resting), day of medium intensity.
> 
> this chapter was not supposed to exist, technically. the first 400 words came after I had written a fair amount into my outline, and I couldn't NOT do a bit about a massage when it's literally _right there in the history of gladiators and doctors_ , so. the last third was already done and suddenly I was either going to have a chapter double the length of the last monster-sized one, or a whole other one. thusly: our girls, in the middle of things.


	6. devotio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fame is indeed beautiful and benign and gentle and satisfying, but happiness is something at once tender and brilliant beyond all things."

Spring breaks slowly, winter’s fingers curling back over the weeks of February, March, and April. The city rouses from hibernation in fits and starts, grumbling at sudden rainstorms and nights that still chill the Romans right down to the marrow of their bones.

Angela would never admit that the lull in bouts (the absence of games running her ragged) could possibly be bothering her. The fact that she has spent almost two months without a life-or-death crisis has had no effect on her whatsoever, and cannot possibly be the reason for her obvious restlessness—in fact, she can not be convinced she is restless at all. After the third week of tight smiles and patently visible anxiety, everyone simply gives up trying. Gods know Helena did her best.  
  
(It is this inexplicable mood Angela will point to when pressed, one day. _What possessed you?_ comes the gentle murmur up against her ear, and Angela merely smiles, shrugs. _Perhaps it was Flora herself_. _Or Venus_ , she muses, _what with the penchant for persuasive female charm and all_. The throaty laugh that hums against her skin thrills her then, as it ever has, and ever will.)  
  
Angela wakes to crystal clear blue skies and a sun that feels truly warm for the first time in months and an idea takes root in her mind before she’s even fully left the realm of dreams. The day is exquisite in its promise and as she dresses, she picks up a seldom used bronze brooch and pins it to her cloak.  
  
She counts the days on her fingers twice as she crosses the ludus grounds, checking and double checking that her scheduling is right, that who she seeks will be in her room in the gladiator quarters and not out getting thumped by Iohannes’ wooden sword—  
  
“Doctor?” Fareeha stands in the doorway to her room, clad in a long green tunic and a thick woolen cloak, hair still slightly mussed from sleep.  
  
“Good morning,” Angela says, inclining her head just a touch.  
  
“Good morning,” Fareeha murmurs back, a gentle head tilt accompanying a raised brow. “What brings you to our quarters? It is rare to see you amongst the fighters here.”  
  
“You,” she replies, then chokes on her freely honest tongue. “Well, that is to say—I wanted… I wanted to show you the city. Not just the arena and the ludus, but the real Rome. If you’d like to join me, today. The weather is meant to be beautiful, if this morning is anything to go by.”  
  
To Angela’s delight, Fareeha smiles just a bit. “I wasn’t aware I’ve been given permission to leave the grounds. I was just about to go to the mess for _ientaculum_. Should we speak to Nikomedes there, or—”  
  
With a confidence in both word and deed she cannot explain, Angela reaches for Fareeha’s hand. “I didn’t intend to ask for permission.”  
  
Fareeha’s hand is warm, and rough, and staying put in Angela’s grasp. Is squeezing back, just so. (And poetry, like a prayer, springs unbidden to her mind: _oh,_ _artfully adorned Aphrodite, deathless child of Zeus and weaver of wiles_ — _I beg you please don’t hurt me, don’t overcome my spirit, goddess, with longing._ )  
  
“Do…” Fareeha glances to her bed, where her bow and arrows lie neatly within reach, “should I bring…?” She halfway gestures at the weapon, unsure. Angela shakes her head.  
  
“No, we should be fine. Fulvus has the _cohortes urbanae_ well-trained and well-armed against thugs and general criminal acts. Besides, I sincerely doubt there is any trouble we might meet that you cannot handle.”  
  
Angela tries very hard not to beam when Fareeha’s mouth opens, then closes, her cheeks flushing scarlet. She fails spectacularly when Fareeha’s smile returns, when she squeezes Angela’s hand again in agreement.  
  
And so if Torbiorn sees two cloaked figures entering his workshop from where he watches the warriors beginning their practice on the _palaestra_ ; if he hears the door to his storefront that faces out to the public street open and close; if he notices the absence of two particular individuals from _Ludus Invigliare_ for the rest of the day, well.  
  
No one heard it from him.  
  
-  
  
When they make it outside, Fareeha’s eyes widen, almost to the size of plates, and Angela has to stifle a giggle.  
  
“There are so many people!”  
  
“Yes,” she says agreeably. “Several million, by last count. Come on.”  
  
Angela’s hand slips up the gap between Fareeha’s arm and her side, briefly caressing the inside of Fareeha’s bicep before curling around it and settling at the crook of her elbow, a gesture that makes Fareeha bend her arm involuntarily to match it. Fareeha allows a small smile, and glances to her right—Angela has hardly noticed, or at least seems ignorant of her own subtle move, leading her charge confidently toward Palatine Hill and chattering about its history in the city. Something in Fareeha’s chest tightens (or loosens, she can’t quite say which) at the …thing that has come to the doctor’s expression, out here amongst the throngs of humanity. The _relief._  
  
_Perhaps I am not the only one trapped behind those walls._ Fareeha swallows thickly at the lightness in Angela’s gait, the worry lines turned to laugh lines in the wink of an eye. Over the last few months she has been privy to a chuckle or two and many a wry grin, but Fareeha is not fully prepared for the enchanting sound of Angela’s pealing laughter, nor the brilliance of her smile, flashing quickly and constantly as they walk. _This is where she belongs_ , she thinks, _amongst the people._  
  
Fareeha watches, mystified at the wholesale change that’s come over Angela. She is charming and effervescent and—oh, there it is. Fareeha sees the slightest crack in the facade Angela’s put on (and it is a good one) for the public, and there—a flash of the tired eyes she knows well. But Angela turns that bright smile on her and she is dazzled like the rest of them, and she sees too that Angela does not seem unhappy here, in this moment, so Fareeha lets it pass.  
  
_There is no use in being melancholy at all times, though sometimes it may be hard to shake._ Her gaze softens, looking on as Angela kneels to meet the eyes of a young girl, producing a bit of dried peach to the sounds of squealed joy.  
  
When Angela stands and they drift together, moving shoulder to shoulder through the crowd, Fareeha murmurs quietly, “It is good to see you smile.”  
  
Angela startles a little at the comment, then bites her lip against a new smile, eyes cast down to their hands and how the backs of their knuckles brush every third step or so. “I suppose that is a subtle way of saying I do not do it enough,” she says.    
  
Fareeha is distracted from her reply when she finds that the flow of bodies in front of her has suddenly stopped giving way. There’s a broad-shouldered man in a wide-brimmed hat looking her intently in the face and stood right in her path. She halts, staring right back into the man’s dark eyes. She takes in his stubbled chin and remembers faintly the sound of Iohannes’ voice as he meticulously scraped a razor over his chiseled jaw, muttering something disparaging about _unshaved men from the countryside_. Fareeha is a moment from a frown and a side-step around him when he lights up with a wide smile, a curiously accented voice rumbling from his chest.  
  
“Name’s Isai Mercurius. I’m a real big fan of yours. It’s an honor to meet you.”  
  
“I… what?”  
  
“You’re Fareeha Amari, ain’t you? Best female gladiator Rome’s seen in years!” Mercurius is loud, verging on exuberant, and Fareeha simply blinks in response to his obvious passion.  
  
“The way you took out that nasty _dimachaerus_ was plum magnificent, ma’am. That so-called Reaper was no match for you. I never much liked him, if I may say so m’self. And that bear, like _wham_ —Oh, oh, oh! And that deadly foreign woman, the one with the long hair all drawn up,” he mimes a ponytail with broad strokes of his animated arms, “and all her little traps she’d hide all over the arena so she could snipe you from afar with her spear...”  
  
He rattles on and on, recounting each of Fareeha’s fights all the way back to the very beginning, right in the middle of the road. By the time he describes the lion’s grisly end in vivid detail, a gaggle of children crouched in the shade of an awning nearby have halted their game of knucklebones to gawk at Fareeha, heads craned all the way back on their tiny necks.  
  
“It’s the Jackal!” one of them ‘whispers’ to another, nearly reaching a whistle tone of disbelief. The fruit vendor they have paused in front of glances up at the name, a wry chuckle jiggling his belly. Clearly expecting a colorful exaggeration, when he too spots Fareeha, he simply gapes, slack jawed. His awe is as childlike as the imps beside him, though he is present enough to slap away a potentially thieving young hand from his wares.  
  
Angela finds herself grateful for those in the crowd who have taken notice of the celebrity in their midst but merely offer an inclined head or a small wave at them, thankful for their restraint and discretion. _Though who can fault them_ , she thinks, as the children begin whispering in earnest now, working themselves up into a lather, apparently trying to select an ambassador for the group.  
  
Her heart aches as a rail thin boy is shoved forward by the shoulders, a clay figure modeled in the Egyptian’s muscled image gripped to his chest. Angela actually clutches at the fabric over her heart when Fareeha cups the boy’s head in her hand and tugs his earlobe playfully, tossing him a wink between Mercurius’ stories of her exploits, his husky drawl extolling one virtue after another. A final pang shoots through her at the look of utter bewilderment on her warrior’s face at the growing aura of attention, at the old woman passing by who touches her shoulder reverently as if paying homage to her household gods.  
  
_Oh. Oh, Fareeha. You have no idea what you mean to people, do you?_  
  
He seems to be waiting for some kind of response (finally); Fareeha forces out stilted words of thanks. Angela spots a cluster of teenage girls a few paces away over the man’s shoulder, buzzing with palpable want. When they move less like human women and more like a pack of wolves who have sighted their prey, she finally steps forward.  
  
“She truly is magnificent, isn’t she?” Angela coos, blinding Mercurius with a radiant show of teeth. “Unfortunately she is late to an appointment with Cornelius Quintus, you know the sculptor? Yes, yes, she is set to have a bust commissioned by one of the senators, so we simply must be going.” He opens his mouth as if to protest when she deftly tucks her shoulder between them, and the glint of her pinned medallion catches his eye, makes him jump back with half a bow.  
  
“Of course good doctor, I didn’t realize. Thank you for your time, ma'am. The both of you.”  
  
Mercurius does not see the look on Fareeha’s face as Angela sends him on his way with a head tilt and a smirk, one of helplessly fond gratitude. The children do not see Angela’s chest swell in response to it, a coal of something protective and fierce and affectionate burning in the pit of her stomach. (The vendor sees it all, and he can name it. He kisses his husband very soundly when he returns home from the market that evening, feeling full to the brim with love.)  
  
They manage to hustle away from Mercurius before the girls can pounce. Rounding a corner, Angela laments aloud, “You are too well known, I should have thought of that. We’ll be accosted all day, and if that happens, we may well get caught. Ugh, by the gods, we have to do something about this. You have to change.”  
  
“What’s wrong with how I look now?”  
  
“You are…” Angela pauses, searching for tact, searching for something other than _extremely fucking famous_ and _uniquely beautiful_ , “very distinctive. Come on, the disguise doesn’t have to be elaborate, just effective.”  
  
A left, two rights, a trek halfway up one of the steeper hills to the south—Aventine, Angela says—and they duck into a small residence. Helena’s house, to be exact, who they catch mumbling a drowsy offering at the shrine just inside the door, hair stuck up at even odder angles than usual from sleep. (“Give a girl some warning next time, Doc, sheesh!” she mutters, swiping in vain at her curly mop.)  
  
Helena’s delightfully open face transforms from sleepy, annoyed surprise to devilish scheming at the chance to put Fareeha in disguise. The girl snaps her fingers and darts away deeper into the apartment, is back almost before either of the women can blink. She’s got soft linens that she winds expertly around Fareeha’s shoulders and drapes over her head, neatly tucking and twisting and pinning until half of her face is obscured.  
  
Angela finds only being able to see Fareeha’s smoldering amber eyes intimidating and alluring all at once. She watches that hawk-like gaze dip to her mouth when she licks her lips, and her cheeks threaten to burn her up when the crinkle of the udjat that belies Fareeha’s grin beneath the veil shows itself. Helena’s rippling giggles reach her ears as if muffled by a long, long, distance, and then she’s shooing them out of her home, demanding _peace_ and _privacy_ and a _little consideration for my day off_ , _thank you very much_.  
  
Fareeha goes unnoticed after they are thrust unceremoniously back onto the street and Angela surges forward, eager to exploit their newfound anonymity. But from behind her veil, blessedly unmolested by the (apparently well-meaning) droves of… _fans_ —and she can barely even wrap her head around the word even in thought, let alone speak it aloud—all around, Fareeha notices something else.  
  
It is one thing for Angela to know the city well, this she does not question. What piques her interest is the way the city, the whole city, knows Angela just as well. The crowd does not merely accommodate them, as a river does a boulder—the flow of foot traffic effectively, _purposefully_ parts before her. Eventually the truth of it dawns on her, stunning her like an opponent’s blow: _Angela is just as famous as I am_.  
  
It is Angela who owns a brooch bearing the insignia of the urban prefect (and by extension, the Emperor himself) that the people bow before; Angela who has coin to freely dispense and smiles to go round as they are courteously waited upon, the masses dissolving before them and servants jumping into motion to be of use; Angela who wears the recognizable sigil of a licensed, learned doctor who has so clearly earned not only the respect of the city, but its admiration.  
  
She is, in a word, beloved.  
  
And Fareeha cannot help but agree.  
  
-  
  
Angela suggests a visit to the baths, and Fareeha hesitates. A brief frown flashes across her face before she realizes, “Oh, I'm sorry! The communal nature maybe foreign to you, let alone uncomfortable. I apologize, it was a thoughtless suggestion—”  
  
Fareeha shakes her head, touching Angela's wrist gently to calm her. "No, it isn't that. I have grown used to the custom." She smiles a little. "It would probably be good for me, no? Therapeutic, isn't that what you always say? Let's go. It sounds nice, and I would like to experience it with you.”  
  
What Fareeha could not say is this: yes, she has grown accustomed to the casual nakedness, and the communal nature of the bath these Romans like so much. What she is not accustomed to, what she is unprepared for, what she is a little afraid of, is to be so near to Angela in such a state. But she does not know how to say this, does not know how to admit it. So, she does what she always does when she is afraid—she faces it head on.  
  
Angela bites her lip, nods alright, wanting to take Fareeha at her word. She seems to have gotten over whatever hesitation it was, and does not elaborate, so Angela does not ask. They go, they undress, they travel from room to room in turn.  
  
(Fareeha often closes her eyes, praying it will be seen as her simply absorbing the experience, attempting to enjoy it fully with all her senses. What it really is for: to help prevent her from taking in all of Angela’s lithe, fair form. Every lean, toned curve calls to her, all but begging for worship. They have both been recognized, again, and it would not do to be caught ravaging the second best doctor in all of Rome on the floor of the _apodyterium_ of the Baths of Titus. Certainly not when she has also absconded from her ludus without notice or permission. Nikomedes will be angry anyway, to be sure, but if word of something like that got out, he might reach a heretofore unseen primal rage. Thus, Fareeha tries very, very hard not to stare.)  
  
Easing into comfortable conversation, they find themselves bickering, almost, gently teasing one another. Fareeha takes mock umbrage, and moves towards Angela as if to physically strong-arm her into recanting. Then they are close. They are so, so close, in these relaxing waters, fully disrobed, fully naked to one another. Angela inhales, and wonders if this is it, if this is that first kiss she has dreamed of so many nights. Fareeha lifts a hand to Angela’s face and thumbs at her bottom lip, and wonders if she should ask before she takes that what she has wanted for weeks on end.  
  
Then another citizen comes splashing into the _tepidarium_ (brash and redheaded and _Celtic_ , of all things) and ruins the moment. They drift apart, both smiling a little internally, both smiling a little sheepishly at one another. And though it is not what they had hoped, they both seem to sense the confidence of what had been about to happen. And so it is easy to let the moment go—because they know it will come again. And soon.  
  
-  
  
Angela tours them all over the city. After the bath on Esquiline Hill, they roam all the way to the northern outskirts to visit the Gardens of Lucullus, walk through market after market, and finally circle back to the Tabularium, its halls filled with tomes and bustling city officials. They finish their stolen day with a drink, a Falernian vintage no less. Fareeha balks at the price, but Angela is firm, and they swallow down the finest wine in the Empire.  
  
Reluctantly Angela turns them toward the ludus, casting a mournful glance at the setting sun. When she turns back to her companion, Fareeha is looking so intently at Angela it is as if she is being looked _through_ rather than at. A beat passes before Fareeha finally asks quietly, “Did you really mean what you said earlier today?”  
  
Her brows wrinkle together, her head canting to one side. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, though I do always try to say what I mean.”  
  
“Do you really think I’m magnificent?” Angela is struck speechless for several reasons: she had forgotten she said those exact words so easily, so freely; she had of course said only a true thing straight from her heart; she has never heard Fareeha sound quite so uncertain in all the months they have known one another. So it is all she can do to nod, her eyes gone soft and tender.  
  
“I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Angela says, unashamed by her honesty.  
  
Fareeha smiles slowly. “You aren’t certain?”  
  
Angela’s brows draw together in confusion again. “What?”  
  
Fareeha smiles wider. “You said ‘I think.’ It implies you aren’t sure that I am the most beautiful woman you have ever seen.”  
  
She cannot stop the words before they fly off her tongue, and she reddens all the way to the tips of her ears as she sighs, “Must you torture me?”  
  
“If you like,” Fareeha purrs. Angela positively melts. “But first I think I’m going to kiss you.”  
  
Angela cannot prevent herself from a retort, even as she also cannot deliver it without grinning as the warrior steps forward, “You think? That implies that you aren’t su—”  
  
And Fareeha, with all the deft finesse of a person who most assuredly knows her own strength, gently lands a hand on Angela’s hip, the other cupping the spot between her elbow and her tricep, and places a warm, soft, firm kiss on Angela’s mouth. (A faint thought occurs to Angela as Fareeha’s tongue, like a lick of flame, teases its way past her lips, and liquid heat pools low in her belly: _No,_ **_this_ ** _is melting._ )  
  
For the moment, nothing else exists, not the games, not the Emperor, not even Rome. The only thing that matters is the divine, precise place at which their lips meet, and the way the axis of the world itself seems to shift until it rotates around that perfect, fixed point.  
  
An exquisite day, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god there are so many things to cover in these end notes. okay, i’m just going to go in order and pretend they’re footnotes. can we all pretend they’re just footnotes? thanks.
> 
> the summary is a mary maclane quote, apparently a very popular, if controversial, writer in her time (1881-1929), whose memoirs ushered in the confessional style of autobiographical writing. I must admit I had never heard of her, but the quote was *chef kiss* perfect. 
> 
> Flora was a Roman goddess of flowers and of the season of spring, of particular importance at the coming of springtime; Venus is the Roman equivalent of Aphrodite.
> 
>  _ienatculum_ \- breakfast.
> 
> the “prayer” that springs to angela’s mind is her remembering a stanza from Sappho (no, I could not help myself, yes, you’re welcome).
> 
>  _cohortes urbanae_ \- a balance to the praetorian guard (which, I think I neglected to explain in chapter four's notes, are an elite unit of the Imperial Roman army who served as bodyguards to the Roman Emperors and an escort service for high ranking officials like senators! hmmm I wonder who Casperius was escorting to attend fareeha’s match in that chapter…). basically cops, commanded by the urban prefect (Fulvus).
> 
> iohannes’ comment is relative to the time; Roman men shaved regularly, and only farmers from the country kept beards. (but jack never takes it easy on jesse, right?)
> 
>  _dimachaerus_ \- a type of Roman gladiator that fought with two swords. (guess who.) known to have been paired against the hoplomachus, aka fareeha’s general gladiator “class.”
> 
> notes from the adorable scrum of street children: knucklebones was basically jacks, played with the small knucklebones from sheep or goats, and kids played with gladiator action figures made of clay!
> 
> the Baths of Titus, Gardens of Lucullus, and Tabularium are all more real places! so are the named hills, a few of the (famous) Seven Hills of Rome. 
> 
> the _apodyterium_ in particular is a room for undressing in which all visitors must have met before entering the baths proper. a public bath was built around three principal rooms: the _caldarium_ (hot bath), the _tepidarium_ (warm bath) and the _frigidarium_ (cold bath). Some thermae also featured steam baths: the _sudatorium_ a moist steam bath, and the _laconicum_ a dry hot room much like a modern sauna. 
> 
> the best wine at the time (80s AD) was considered to be Falernian, grown on the slopes of Mount Falernus.
> 
> finally, a nod to the person for whom this fic is written--”no, _this_ is melting” is a call to the end of hundredhanded’s fic, [Recovery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7861468), (the third in a lovely little pharmercy trio I highly recommend). I think I may have done it subconsciously, but the echo is quite strong. :)
> 
> this chapter, much like the end notes to it, got WAY out of hand fairly quickly, and took a lot longer than I anticipated to write. it is, alone, about as long as half of the fic of the chapters that came before it. it is also clearly a chapter of indulgence (for example: I managed to shoehorn in four new OW character easter eggs, and the next chapter will have more, I mean come ON), but one I cannot bring myself to pare down or regret, so I hope you enjoyed it. thank you for reading and for your patience. hold out--we have quite some fun yet ahead.


End file.
